


Incidence

by stcrmpilot



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Episode: s04e03 Annihilation, Touch-Starved, Whump, ah dear that's quite the array, time lords r dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 08:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19764829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: After escaping Lord Prydon's stronghold, Romana and Leela are left to tend to Narvin's wounds. Narvin is less than cooperative.





	Incidence

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me fudging all the medical stuff idk what I'm talking about

The thing, Narvin supposes, about dressing so as to leave as little skin exposed as possible—and, by extension, acting just obnoxious enough to ensure no one is ever hit with the inclination to change that situation—is that physical contact becomes something of a significant event, for better or for worse. 

He’s never gone in for it, personally, even in his past bodies, and thus most of his memories of being touched he considers solidly in the “worse” category. To let oneself be touched is a display of trust and affection that he, as a secretive person by nature and profession, considers both distasteful and dangerous. He might as well invite the whole galaxy to come steal CIA secrets from his mind. It’s unnecessary, besides; he’s aware of the prevalence of the condition known as touch deprivation in certain other species, but if it exists at all among Time Lords then it surely must be put down to statistical outlier and thoroughly ignored. 

There is also the fact that those instances in which he has experienced notable physical contact, few and far between, have been characterized almost exclusively by the use of coercion, force, or torture. But he’s certain it’s incidental. 

Even he, however, can recognize that his lack of experience dealing with other people touching him is occasionally inconvenient. He’s lying in a sickbay, his robes heavy and damp with his own blood, slowly being reminded of a raw, burning pain somewhere in his upper body that really probably should feel more intense than it does. His head aches and spins so it feels like he’s falling, and he can’t quite seem to focus his eyes on any one spot for long. He doesn’t find any of this terribly alarming—he does have the wits about him to recall that this is hardly the first time he’s been in this position, and if he’s still conscious then it can’t be that bad. What gives him pause is that something is tugging on the catch of his robes, and though he can’t entirely feel his arms he is relatively certain it isn’t him. 

Mumbling a protest, he clumsily tries to bat at the hands of whoever is touching him. He only succeeds in shifting his robes across his chest, earning himself a fresh spike of pain and an annoyed grumble from somewhere to his right. 

“Narvin,” growls a voice he recognizes as Romana’s, though it takes him a moment, “for _once_ would you just cooperate with me?”

His hand is plucked away from the collar of his robes and placed at his side. 

“It is not his fault,” says Leela to his left, light enough that he knows she isn’t really defending him. “Even in his sleep he cannot resist being difficult.”

With great effort, he turns a glare on her. “M’not asleep,” he says hoarsely. “I can hear you.”

She grins. It hits him a nanospan too late that the teasing is a distraction, when Romana resumes working at his ruined robes. He instinctively moves to stop her, but Leela keeps his arm pinned to the bed, and he isn't near strong enough to argue. He huffs, frustrated, even though his vision swims with the pain it causes. 

"For Rassilon's sake," mutters Romana. She manages to shove his tabard out of the way and begins undoing his tunic. 

Narvin sets his jaw against the urge to struggle, as aware as he can be at the moment that his dignity is going out the window no matter what. "I don't actually _want_ to be undressed by you, you know," he grumbles, for if he can't move he is certainly going to talk. 

Romana shoots him a glare. "You are aware that you've been clawed open? Or would you prefer to bleed out fully-clothed?"

"You'll have to give me a moment to consider," he retorts, though he knows his voice is too rough and strained to be taken seriously. Then Romana opens his torn robes and peels them away from his skin, and any thought of retaliation is wiped out of his mind. He presses his head back into the pillow and grits his teeth as a choked cry tears from his throat, agony driving the air from his chest as effectively as a physical blow. He's left gasping and shaking, struggling to hang onto consciousness. 

He manages not to miss Romana's wince, even as she continues her treatment with calm efficiency. 

"I'm sorry," she says, tense, digging through a first aid kit at his side without taking her eyes off his wound. "You know how it is. Things get a bit… clotted together."

"Unfortunately I do," he wheezes. He exhales shakily, trying to regain enough focus to control his pain responses and blood flow. It's only after a moment that he realizes Leela has moved her hand from his arm, and that he, as a result of his severely weakened state, no doubt, is now holding it. 

He glances down, glaring at the offending appendage as if he has nothing to do with it. "Why're you doing that?" he mutters. 

Leela follows his gaze and raises an eyebrow. "If you do not like it," she says simply, "let go." 

"I believe it's called comfort, Narvin," Romana joins in. "I'm certain Leela can explain if you're unfamiliar with the concept. Now hold still…" 

She bends over and, ever so carefully, wipes along the edges of his wounds with a small square of gauze. He tenses—and _only_ squeezes Leela's hand because it happens to be there, and as soon as he's able to relax he'll be more than pleased to let go—and almost laughs giddily a moment later when the pain begins to fade. Whatever numbing agent they've tracked down isn't much, but it's a relief nonetheless. 

Romana spares him a glance, her hands busy with the seal on a pack of wound closures. "Better?"

"Yes," he sighs. With the pain easing up, he finds he can feel blood trickling down his chest and sides, and his lightheadedness worsens; he wonders if there's any more humiliating situation he could've ended up in, lying half-clothed and helpless with his last life bleeding out of him by way of a blow from a Vampire. Not to mention, being rescued by his quarrelsome President and her half-Hound savage. It’s always disconcerting when he ends up on that side of the equation. 

He supposes it’ll be happening a lot more in the future, without any regenerations left.

It's another unfortunate side effect that the painkiller affords him a little bit more focus, all of which is quickly occupied by the fact that Leela still has not let go of his hand. The part of his brain capable of rational thought recognizes that he's likely suffering the effects of shock and blood loss, and that the rather pleasant electric current sensation warming a path from his hand to the space between his hearts is not indicative of enjoyment or affection or, Rassilon forbid, a need for non-torturous physical contact that he hasn't experienced in perhaps a decade. It's terribly annoying; perhaps if his nerve endings would behave themselves he would be able to aid Romana in keeping him alive and conscious. 

And to add insult to injury, quite literally, Leela doesn't seem to have the tiniest bit of sympathy for his predicament. She's watching Romana work to clean and close his wounds, her brow furrowed slightly in concern as her thumb strokes idly across the back of his hand, giving absolutely no sign that her breath is catching with every movement, like his certainly isn't, or that she's at all embarrassed or ashamed or off-put by the socially unusual display of… something. She could at least have the decency to acknowledge the effect she's having on his already weakened state. 

Regrettably, without the energy to instigate much verbal sparring himself, Narvin doesn’t have much to do except lie still and contemplate his situation. When Romana prods at his wounds again, laying a series of closures over the long slashes in his chest, the sting isn't quite intense enough to distract him from the feeling of being _touched_ —not just on his hand or his arm, but her fingers delicately placing the little bandages, thumbs smoothing the adhesive down, her hand laid flat over his hearts as she gently presses the torn skin closer together. If he wanted to squirm before, now he's enraptured. It's the strangest sensation; in an entirely cerebral sense, according to everything he knows about himself and his image and his wants and needs, he should be absolutely mortified. He should have insisted he deal with his injuries himself, he should never have let the two of them see him, let alone touch him. But, he must admit—and he's certain now he must be suffering from some sort of shock-induced delirium—he doesn't dislike it. 

"Romana," says Leela, peering at his chest. His fingers twitch with the desire to cover his torso with his blood-soaked robes, and he clenches his free hand into a tight fist. "What about the… the der-mal…" 

"The dermal regenerator?" Romana asks, somewhat distracted, and waits for her nod. 

"Will it not stop the bleeding?" Leela watches glances over the array of first aid supplies with concern marking her features. "He has lost so much blood, Romana, you should–" 

"I know, Leela," she says tightly. "I'm doing my best."

"It won't do much of anything until the wounds have been closed," Narvin tells her. "They must clot first in order to heal nicely." His head spins with the effort of forming a complete sentence. "I'm… fine, Leela. I'm a Time Lord. We're resilient."

Leela laughs, but takes pity on him and doesn't argue the point. 

"Narvin is right, yes," mutters Romana, focused. "It's really… quite remarkable the damage Prydon managed to do."

"I've gathered that," sighs Narvin. 

She gives him a pointed glance. "Any reasonable Time Lord would have regenerated by now," she mutters, and presses a bandage on just hard enough to make him inhale sharply. Any semblance of comfort he may or may not have acquired with the situation now vanishes. 

"Romana," Leela says, in a chastising tone. 

"Oh, forgive me, Madam President, for my terrible indiscretion in being captured and tortured," Narvin says drily. 

"Narvin," Leela warns. "Do not waste your energy arguing."

"You're not forgiven, actually," says Romana, her tone scathing. "You're a spy. Avoiding capture in dangerous territory is what you _do_."

He blinks. Anger wells up in his chest and tightens around his throat, because similar thoughts have been drifting through his own head since Rexus stole his remaining lives, and hearing Romana say it aloud makes him want to disappear into the mattress even more than the touching already does. "That–" he laughs harshly– "now that _is_ low, Romana, I'm impressed. But can we possibly save the official discipline for a time when I'm not bleeding out?"

"We'll do it whenever I please. And may I remind you, I am the one in charge of whether or not you do actually bleed out."

"Let me, then," he snaps. “Find yourself a better accomplice if I’m so bad at my job.”

“Maybe I should! Anyone with an ounce of intelligence should have known to tell their _accomplices_ that they can’t bloody regenerate!”

“That’s my business!” he says indignantly. 

“No, it’s not!” she retorts. “It’s my business if you die because I didn’t know! It’s my business if you get killed doing something stupid!”

“Ah, I see,” he sneers. “Already tired of looking after my one pitiful life?”

She turns a furious glare on him. "Tired of losing friends, _perhaps!_ " she shouts. 

The room lapses into silence. Narvin stares, speechless, as colour floods her cheeks. Then she breaks eye contact, sniffs, and tilts her head in the proud, aloof manner she reserves for the Panopticon, and she returns to her bandages. 

"Romana," Leela murmurs, recovering her speech much quicker than he. "That was un-called for."

"I am sorry you're uncomfortable, Narvin," she says, a little too waspish to sound at all genuine. "I'm nearly done."

"I…" Narvin glances to Leela, as if seeking guidance, before remembering himself and fixing his eyes on the ceiling. 

Leela sighs, and moves her free hand to rest on his shoulder—a comforting gesture, no doubt, but now it only sends a hot bolt of anger and discomfort through his chest. 

"Get off," he snaps, jerking away from her. His voice shakes just a bit more than intended, coming out less authoritative than afraid. "What are you even here for, anyway?"

Her expression turns maddeningly sympathetic, but she moves her hand back where it was. "She is only worried, Narvin," she says quietly. "Do not take it personally."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Romana mutters. 

“Someone must say it,” she replies. 

“I don’t want you to.”

“He will not figure it out if I do not!”

“I don’t _want–_ ” She cuts herself off and huffs, frustrated. 

Narvin doesn't try to contest Leela’s hand still gripped in his; Romana's trying to wipe the blood from his skin to finish bandaging him up, none too gently, and he's not sure he could relax his muscles if he tried. He wishes with every ounce of his being that he could tell Romana to leave him be as well, that he could regenerate already and be done with this humiliation. It's just his luck he can't. 

And thus he's left to lie there, hide his wincing, and try to reconcile the lingering hurt at her words with the fact that the sensation of being touched still makes him feel distinctly like he's melting. He hates it, of course. He _hates_ that she has so much power over him right now. He has no need to be _cared for_ , especially not by the two of them, especially if this is what comes of it. 

But… well, it's just a bit hard to be mad when Romana's just called him a friend. She called him an incompetent idiot as well, yes, and he still (irrationally) feels betrayed, and he would leave in a second if he could, but she _did_ call him a friend. When he looks at it objectively, he supposes he shouldn't expect anything less than a thorough shouting match from her, if she really does mind whether he dies or not. Further, if he's _scared_ her with his near-death experience. (That would certainly imply she holds some amount of fondness for him, but he’s not sure he dares go that far.)

To his great chagrin, he finds his anger fading quickly. He’s still wary, but he’s also very tired, and Leela's taken advantage of his hazy concentration and snuck her hand back onto his shoulder, and Romana is smoothing a last bandage over his ribs, much gentler now. He suddenly thinks he might just understand why she used to let Brax take her hand when she thought no one could see, and why Leela gets that look on her face when she speaks of huddling with her tribemates on cold nights. Against all reason, despite the pain he's in, he wants to live in this moment. Because no matter his conscious feelings towards it, there is something about the novelty of being cared for—finding himself so entirely at their mercy and being shown perhaps more kindness than he ever has—that's clearly fried every last one of his neurons. 

Exhaling shakily, Romana sags against the bed as she inspects her work, satisfied that he's not in any imminent danger. "Right," she says, exhaustion tinging her tone. "Let's get you cleaned up a bit."

She stands, haphazardly tosses the supplies scattered on the bed back into their box, and goes to rinse out the blood-soaked cloth. 

Leela squeezes his hand, drawing his attention to her. 

"Are you alright?" she asks, quietly, as if aware he won’t answer honestly without some pretence of comradeship. 

Narvin sniffs, gathering as much composure as he can, and nods. "Course."

"Can you sit up a little?"

Slowly and painfully, she helps him the rest of the way out of his ruined robes. Even the slight movement makes his head spin dangerously, and his vision goes spotty for a moment before he settles back down against his pillow. He shuts his eyes against the dizziness, and focuses on Leela's touch, letting it steady him. 

Romana returns with the damp cloth, and reaches over him to wipe a smear of blood from Leela's cheek before she offers it to him. "I expect you'll want to do that yourself," she says, turning away to sort through the first aid kit in a frankly unprecedented show of respect. 

"Nonsense," Leela scoffs. "He is injured!"

Narvin frowns. "I am perfectly capable of–" 

"Hush, Time Lord. Rest, or you will pass out." She takes the cloth from him and starts on the dried blood on his shoulder. She shoots him a sly smile. "I am impressed that you have not, though," she says. "Perhaps you are more re-sil-ient than I thought."

"Oh, I'll take it,” he relents. 

Romana sets a folded sheet on the side of his bed, then steps back and glances around the medbay, seemingly reluctant to be near him any longer. Though she declines to lay the sheet out over him, she schools her features into disapproval, unwilling to let herself leave just yet. 

“You still should have told me what happened,” she says sternly. 

Something twists in the pit of Narvin’s stomach—the now-familiar dread that likes to accost him when he thinks too long about it. 

"You didn't need to know," he mutters, dropping his eyes away from her. 

Exasperated, she buries her face in her hands and paces in a slow circle, taking a moment to collect herself. "Narvin," she groans. 

He's certain she's going chastise him further. He braces for the worst; insults and shouting, questions on what happened, what Rexus did, even being ordered to stay on the Axis from now on. He can see she wants to, once she lets her arms fall by her sides again—she's always been too curious for her own good, and adding the possibility of tormenting him must surely make it irresistible—and he winces internally. 

To his surprise, she only sighs. 

"Well, are you… okay?" she asks, managing to sound only a little forced. "No… lasting injuries?"

He blinks. "Well," he says cautiously, "there is the–"

"The one thing, yes."

"Yes," he answers. It's as true as it can be, he supposes. And either way, he won't be left to rot on the Axis while she and Leela go traipsing through alternate universes. 

She nods, slowly. "Alright."

"That's it?" he asks, before he can stop himself. 

"What am I to do, Narvin?" The genuine despair in her voice surprises him. "I can't exactly put you away in a pocket universe."

"No," he agrees. He frowns. "I can't see why you'd want to."

"Oh, come off it," she mutters. 

"She means," Leela says gently, without looking up, "that she does not want you to be injured again."

Narvin raises an eyebrow in her direction. 

"Pandak's ghost, I don't need a translator," she grumbles. She grabs the first aid kit from the cart next to the bed and marches off to put it away, having reached her limit for candid conversation. 

Leela smiles after her, clearly pleased with herself, then returns her attention to him. He narrows his eyes. 

“I don’t want your pity, you know,” he says, almost warningly. Being comforted against his will is one thing; the idea of her faking it entirely makes him want to shoot something. 

Leela tilts her head curiously. “Why do you think I pity you? I do not. Hold still.”

Ignoring his spluttered protests, she tilts his head towards her without bothering to make a request and begins scrubbing at his cheek. 

“You’re being nice,” he mutters, wincing. “To _me_. You don’t do that.”

“That does not mean I pity you,” she says. “Is your opinion of yourself really so low?”

Her intonation is so casual that it takes him a moment to register the question. He opens his mouth, taken aback, then shuts it and frowns. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks indignantly. 

Leela, unfortunately, seems determined to take him seriously, today of all days. Forcing him to meet her eyes—he does try to turn away, but she won’t have it and he gives up quickly—she regards him with an expression that makes him hope she doesn’t have a knife on her. 

“I am being nice,” she says slowly, as if explaining nuclear physics to a child, “because you have lost something important to you. You are grieving—ah, do not argue, it is nothing to be ashamed of. I tease you, Narvin, but I am not cruel.” She hesitates. “You do not think I _want_ to hurt you, do you?”

“Forgive me for assuming,” he says drily, confusion-induced wariness twinging at the back of his mind, “but you have attempted to stab me on multiple occasions.”

She gives him a dissatisfied look, but releases him. She sets the cloth down and reaches across him for the sheets, carefully spreading them over his body. He rubs at his jaw where her hand had been. 

“There,” she proclaims, once he’s all tucked in. “As good as new.”

He huffs a short laugh. “Not quite, Leela,” he says. 

She gets a strange look on her face. He watches as her expression shifts into consideration, then a highly uncharacteristic self-consciousness. Then she seems to make up her mind, and sits back down her chair. Before he can figure out her intentions she leans over and settles her head against his shoulder, laying her arm very gently over his chest in something that resembles a hug, careful to avoid his bandages. 

“Oh,” he says. It doesn’t look very comfortable; perhaps she’s made some sort of error. “Er… what– what are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, Narvin,” she says quietly, her voice muffled against the blanket. She shifts a bit closer, burying her face in the crook of his neck. 

He wonders, through a great deal of confusion and a funny fluttering sensation in his chest, whether he’s managed to worry her too, and he wonders how she can possibly take to this so easily. 

(How is _he_ taking to it so easily?)

The harsh lights of the medbay dim to a warm glow. Narvin glances over to see Romana standing by the door. 

“Leela?” she says quietly.

Leela raises her head, then sits up, and Romana tilts her head towards the door, indicating it’s time to leave. He feels an odd pang of regret. 

Leela frowns. “Why would I leave?” she protests. 

Romana glances to him, as if expecting him to kick them both out of the medbay. Admittedly, he would’ve expected himself to do the same a couple spans ago. But she _was_ right: he probably would have regenerated today, if he could, and the three of them still bear errant streaks of his blood on their skin, stains on their clothes, and there's something about the realness of it all that threatens to choke him. He doesn’t want to be alone. Inexplicably, he wants _them_ there—perhaps the only two people in the universe for whom that could possibly be true. 

He doesn’t say that, Rassilon, no. But Leela, with an aptitude for emotions unmatched by the two of them combined, seems to know anyway. 

“He needs to rest,” says Romana. There’s a tension in the way she holds herself, as if poised to hurry away at the soonest opportunity, that betrays her discomfort. 

“He also needs to be kept warm,” Leela counters. “To prevent shock. I am warm.”

“Leela–”

Romana steps forward as if moving to stop her, her expression pinched in secondhand embarrassment, but she’s too late; Leela’s already ushering him to one side of the bed and happily tucking herself in beside him, head back on his shoulder, arm back over his torso. Romana looks to him, apologetic; she knows he’ll consider the gesture grossly inappropriate. He’s certain no amount of blood loss could stop him from blushing furiously. 

“Well…” She clears her throat, averting her gaze to the floor. “As long as it’s alright with you.”

She turns to leave. A jolt of something suspiciously close to panic hits him.

“Romana,” he calls. He regrets it deeply as soon as she turns back, regarding him curiously. Leela shifts next to him, raising her head to watch. 

“Would, er…” He swallows nervously. “Rather, well, would you…” He looks up at the ceiling and shuts his eyes. “Would you stay?” he asks quietly. 

For a moment, he’s left to wait in silence. 

“Ah,” says Romana, almost inaudible. He opens his eyes to find her still standing in the doorway, staring cautiously at him. She looks as if she would love to fidget in discomfort, but is too proud. 

Narvin’s hearts sink with a sickening humiliation. Of course, he thinks, she wouldn’t want to be around him any longer than necessary. She’s just finished yelling at him. 

Then Leela lifts her arm and extends her hand. 

“Come, Romana,” she invites, smiling kindly. “It is alright. ”

It occurs to him—really far too late for a supposedly intelligent Time Lord—that perhaps Romana has her own qualms around giving and receiving affection. Perhaps she feels unwelcome, watching him accept Leela’s comfort and believing (whether correctly or not is inconsequential) that she’s hurt him by scolding him for his secrecy. He would never begrudge her, if she did leave, but he wants her there. It wouldn’t be right, without both of them. 

He really doesn’t have the wits about him to navigate all the implications of that at the moment. He resolves to save it for the morning. 

At Leela’s request, her posture softens. Hesitant, as if certain there’s some sort of trap waiting to spring, she closes and locks the door to the medbay and walks back over to them. She pushes her chair up against the wall next to his bed and sits down with a quiet sigh. 

Narvin looks up at her. She spares him a glance, but returns to staring at the far wall with the air of someone deep in contemplation. Her expression almost alarms him; he’s not sure he’s ever seen her look so exhausted. 

“Oh, Narvin,” she says, so quiet he can barely hear. “What am I going to do with you?”

It’s not a question she wants him to answer, but he’s struck by the desire to answer anyway; to tell her that nothing need change, she doesn’t have to protect him; to comfort her, ease the dread he sees in her eyes when she looks at them, ever since Braxiatel’s… disappearance. 

He’s certain nothing he could say would help. He’s never been good with words. So he offers his hand instead—a tiny gesture, enough to grant him plausible deniability, should she find it entirely repulsive. There’s a beat, then she places her hand in his, so slowly it could almost be an accident, and laces their fingers together. He resists the urge to exhale shakily in relief. 

Chuckling quietly, Leela reaches over and covers both their hands with hers. 

“You are both ridiculous,” she mumbles against his collarbone. 

He and Romana exchange a dubious glance. A wry smile spreads inexorably across her lips, and then he’s smiling too, entirely against his will. He looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head. 

“Good night, Leela,” she murmurs, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “Narvin.”

“Good night, Romana,” answers Leela. 

Narvin sighs. “Good night, Romana.”

He starts to nod off uncharacteristically quickly. Rest, as a rule, doesn’t agree with him, but the weight of Leela’s arm over him and Romana keeping watch at his side have him asleep before long. It’s warm, and safe, and horribly, disgustingly nice. It’s the best sleep he’s had in decades. 

But he’s certain that’s incidental. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [stcrmpilot.tumblr.com](https://stcrmpilot.tumblr.com)


End file.
